


snowmelt

by silklace



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Omega, M/M, Mostly Unresolved Emotional Tension, Multiple Orgasms, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:14:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22333987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silklace/pseuds/silklace
Summary: He felt, all things considered, that it was simply prudent to get right to the point.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 141
Kudos: 2041





	snowmelt

**Author's Note:**

> one day I woke up and thought, "ha ha, imagine if Geralt was a Witcher and an alpha - what...a...combination..." So, now here we are. 
> 
> Takes place after Jaskier's recovery from the djinn attack, technically, but, you know - *handwaves plot with a benevolent sweep of her hand*
> 
> For L & G, my main squeezes.

It wasn’t until they were well on the road away from town that it really hit him, though possibly he should have been paying attention to the way the backs of his knees had started sweating the minute he’d seen Geralt walking towards him outside of Yennefer’s manor, or to the way his throat had gone hot and dry despite the taste of sweetness still on the back of his teeth from the wine skin he’d pilfered from her pantry on his way out. 

In his defense, he’d still been recovering from spending the prior evening steadfastly spitting his insides up onto his outsides. 

Also, he tended to always get a little sweaty around Geralt, a fact they were both apparently extremely united in assiduously pretending was not happening. 

The wagon creaked under them. Geralt had tried to refuse it, until Jaskier had gone around looking at it critically and making disparaging remarks to its owner. He’d been bent nearly in half, inspecting the underneath axle and making dubious noises, when Geralt had made a bitten-off sound of displeasure and grunted, “We’ll take it.”

Jaskier reversed neatly out from underneath, brushing the dust off his knees from where he’d been kneeling on all fours. Geralt was fussing determinedly with his money bag. “We will?”

“Get in.”

“I thought we had two perfectly good horses and besides, walking a day in my life wouldn’t kill me,” Jaskier intoned in what he felt was a remarkably good imitation of Geralt’s stupid growl. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes. 

“You do sound like that,” Jaskier told him solemnly. “You do.”

“Get in the cart, Jaskier.”

All in all, it had all gone perfectly to plan. Geralt hated doing as he was told when Jaskier was the one doing the telling. Ergo, Jaskier had voiced loudly that the cart was not the right choice and now they had a cart, and Jaskier had space to push his feet forward and flex his legs, a little, when they got tense from too many hours on the road. 

Now, Geralt said, “If you do that one more time.”

“Mm. What? You forgot half of your sentence there, while you were menacing me.”

“Stop -,” Geralt made a hissing noise under his breath. He really was more like a big cat. Wolf was a stupid name, though White Cat didn’t have quite the same effect, he supposed. “Shuffling.”

“M’not – shuffling,” Jaskier explained patiently, as he shuffled in his seat. “I’m getting comfortable.”

“Well, stop it.”

“Not all of us believe that through deprivation and a complete refusal of life’s pleasures does one become good again.”

Geralt made an absurd face, like Jaskier was the absurd one. “I don’t – think that.”

“Right.”

Geralt next made a face like he was sucking his teeth and trying to hide that he was sucking his teeth. He really was so wonderfully expressive. Finally, he said, “The cart’s made of wood. There’s only so much comfort,” he said, dryly, “you’re going to get out of it.”

“Oh,” Jaskier assured him, “me and my bottom are extremely up-to-date on the state of the cart’s comfort.” He wriggled a little, for emphasis. The cart’s axle really was shoddy. “Extremely up to date.”

He didn’t need to look over, and in fact really thought it was all for the best if he didn’t, to be able to tell that Geralt was rolling his eyes. He could _feel_ it. “Well, next time I spend two hunts’ worth of pay on a cart for your pleasure, I’ll be sure to consult your bottom about it.” 

“Well,” Jaskier said, and tried – valiantly, he felt – to ignore the way his voice had gone a little raw and a little funny, “as we’re discussing the state of my bottom -”

“Were we?” Geralt didn’t exactly do strangled-sounding, not with the whole wolf emerging from hibernation pitch he had going on, but if he was ever going to reach it, apparently that time was now. 

“Yes, actually, extensively and for the past several minutes.” They’d passed deeper into the forest; the branches overhead were so dense that the sun barely reached through them. He should have been shivering, with his thin trousers and his doublet half-open.

He was drenched in sweat. 

“You’re not an alpha, are you, by chance?” He felt, all things considered, that it was simply prudent to get right to the point. “I mean, that would be – impossible. Witcher _and_ alpha. Ridiculous. I’m sure -,” he wiped his palms on his thighs, which only emphasized that his thighs were also sweating. Miraculously. One miracle after another. “That’s impossible. Definitely against the rules. That much raw power and strength – in one person. Couldn’t have that. Simply,” a noise that he felt was very definitely not a whimper, as the ache in his gut tripled, as the sheer desire to be taken – taken apart and taken out and taken down – overwhelmed him in a crest of sensation, “could not be possible, and I’m certain you’re going to say something reassuring any moment now.”

Geralt was silent. His hands on the reins were like a chimera’s heart – knotted and shot through with streaks of corded veins. 

“Geralt,” he said, and was aware that it came out more like – a breath, like an exhale. Perhaps a sob.

A branch broke under the wheel of their cart – a clean, cracking kind of sound. 

Jaskier took an infinitely deep breath and allowed himself to look over at Geralt, who was still staring ahead. His face looked – like it always did, like he was holding himself back or very specifically not thinking of anything, which Jaskier wanted to tell him simply made him look like a man with very many secrets – certainly not somehow _less_ interesting. 

He had a shiny new scar on the side of his throat that Jaskier hadn’t noticed before, and his hair was in need of a wash. 

Otherwise, he looked perfectly normal, as if today were any other day, as if an omega weren’t tipping over into an unbearable heat inches away from him. 

Except, perhaps, for the bead of sweat slowly wending its way down his temple. 

Geralt licked his lips, like his mouth was dry. 

“Oh my god,” Jaskier said. 

“I -”

“Were you just not going to _say_ anything? This whole time?” His hands, he was aware, were doing something some people might call flailing. 

“That’s not -”

“What? Just - _manfully_ resisting me?” 

Geralt made what was, for him, an explosive noise – a puff of derisive air between his lips. 

“You _were_ ,” Jaskier said, equally explosive. “What? Just pretend? This wasn’t happening? My god, that’s it, I’m taking my clothes off.”

“Well, don’t do that.” Geralt made a hurried movement with his hand, as if he were going to reach out, but then he didn’t – his hand flexed once in midair, before he wrapped careful, steady fingers around the reins again. 

“I am literally one thousand degrees,” Jaskier told him, and fucked the buttons on his doublet as he tore it cleanly open down his chest. “Cersei’s tit,” he breathed, as he felt the evening’s cool air slip its fingers inside his jacket. 

Whatever. So Geralt really didn’t want to fuck him. He’d thought maybe he just had a hang up about sex with friends, or about casual sex, back before they’d become – whatever they were now. 

Still, nothing says disinterest like politely rejecting a blowjob from the bloke who’d spent forty minutes bathing you and throwing chamomile flowers in your bathwater, so. That was that. No reason anything should have changed. 

He tugged the hem of his undershirt out of his waistband and began to work it over his head. 

“Uh.” Geralt said, over the steady creaking of the cart, the slow murmur of the horses' snuffles and sighs. “There’s – things. Bugs.” 

Jaskier snorted. “Bugs?” 

“Yes, in the air, and -”

“Well, I really couldn’t give two flying fuckloads about bugs, Geralt, not at the moment when, as I’ve mentioned -”

“I – we could stop, there’s –”

He continued loudly, “I’ve descended into what can only be the millionth level of hell, temperature-wise, and also, I’m not sure I’ve mentioned though surely you must be aware, having been _an alpha this entire time_ but I’m also wetter than a mermaid’s cunt.”

Geralt was very quiet. Overhead, a dove cooed. Jaskier glared balefully at it. The ache to be fucked had spread over him – he could feel it in his thighs and shins and belly and his goddamn elbows, how much he wanted to be full up with it, with a good fucking, a cock taking him hard enough he wouldn’t be able to breathe, or think, or feel how his skin was faintly, everywhere, unnaturally hot. 

“Mermaids don’t,” Geralt began, then, very carefully closed his mouth. 

“Just,” Jaskier told him, and the ache must have made it up to his jaw now, because the words came out weary and a little sad and mostly resigned. “Just take me to the nearest town. I’ll find someone there.”

“Right,” Geralt said. He tugged a little on the reins, as if resetting them, though they hadn’t been out of place at all. Then: “Someone.”

“That’s typically the way it goes.”

Geralt grunted.

There was silence, except for the cooing dove, who was apparently having an eventful little evening. Geralt said, “You haven’t got – someone. Who takes care of this for you.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “You know, for the rest of us, our questions go up at the end. Like this?” He said and demonstrated. “And, no, to answer your not-questions. Not that you would know, but I actually don’t – have a hard time finding someone. To.”

Geralt grunted again. His hands were steady on his thighs, curled around the leather reins. The knuckles were sharp, like his skin sat too close to the bones. He smelled like – Jaskier felt a rather hysterical giggle rising in his throat - like sunshine. Like snowmelt on the highest point of a mountain, just touched by sunshine. That’s what he smelled like. 

Ahead of them, he could dimly make out that the path was going to fork. There was even a neat little sign, to tell them the way to the nearest town. How – perfectly perfect. 

Geralt said, “Just – anyone.” He added, “Then?” as if he were actually trying to heed Jaskier’s instruction about how questions were, linguistically, communicated.

Jaskier whipped his head around. His eyes narrowed, which was actually hard to do when he was three sheets into a heat and everything on his body seemed inclined towards dilation, towards a loosening, a widening, a pliancy for fucking. 

“Oh, I see.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“So, now I’m a slut, is that it.”

“I thought it was supposed to go up at the end.”

Jaskier made a hot noise. “That’s it. I’m taking my trousers off.”

Geralt sighed. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead, just once, with the back of his hand. 

Jaskier stopped with his thumb on his buttons. He’d gotten one already flicked open. “Are you.”

“No,” Geralt said. 

“Oh my god, you are.”

“Am not.” He flexed his shoulders, as if they were aching. 

“You want to fuck me.”

“No,” Geralt said again, and made that face again like he was burdened by the world’s absurdity. 

“Oh my god, you do!”

“Do not!”

“You do, you want to fuck me -”

Geralt’s jaw worked. “We’re two, maybe three hours out from the next town -”

“- you want to _breed_ -”

“- and I’m sure you’ll find a perfectly acceptable alpha there to -,” Geralt continued, voice rising.

“- me, you want to push your knot -”

“ - take care of your heat.”

“- into my soaking wet hole and keep me – oh,” he pivoted hard, “and what, you’ll just meditate yours away?”

Geralt sniffed, then made a face like he regretted it. “You could. Sit further away.”

Jaskier tried not to feel offended by that and failed. His voice was – well. If you combined his current high-pitched indignation with Geralt’s rumbling baritone you might get someone halfway to normal. Perfect. They were two halves of a whole person. That’s – that’s the exact metaphor he was hoping his fevered brain would land on. He mustered himself, “My god, you complete ascetic, is that what you do? Meditate your heats away? Haven’t you ever – no, why am I even asking, of course not, of course no one could handle big scary Witcher in an alpha heat with his enormous, fat cock, why would I even ask.” He rolled his eyes so hard it made his head hurt a little. 

“Enormous,” Geralt said.

Jaskier huffed. “Presumably.”

They’d reached the fork in the road, with its little sign announcing the next closest town was in a few hours reach. All they had to do was nose the horses to the left instead of the right.

Jaskier put his palms over his hot cheeks and then, with his tongue tripping a little, said in a rush, “Don’t – don’t go to the town. I mean, god, go to the town if you want, if that’s what you really want, though I’m not sure – I think they trained that out of you or something, the ability to like discern your inner desires and act on them without thought for other people’s welfare or needs or the good of the Continent, but – not, Merlin’s balls, not out of some misbegotten notion that I can’t handle or, I’ll just say it, though I don’t think I’ve really been uh shall we say subtle before, but that I don’t _want_ you to fuck me with your enormous dick, god, and not because it’s attached to ooh, a Witcher, you idiot, but – don’t I? don’t I know you? A little bit. Even the littlest bit?”

He looked over at Geralt through his fingers. Geralt was – honest to god – looking upwards, towards the sky, where the sun was flecks of soft light in the distance, pink rising up on the horizon to meet the kiss of evening.

After a moment, he said, “Don’t go to the town.”

Jaskier breathed out hard through his nose. “Don’t go to the town.”

“You smell,” Geralt said, looking down now, perhaps at his knuckles, fish bone white against his pale skin, “unbelievably good.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, politely, and Geralt snorted. 

Then he was quiet again until he opened his mouth to say, “Sometimes I – I’ve hurt people. Before.”

“Color me shocked. We’ll – I’ll, you’re not going to literally kill me with your dick, Geralt, so we’ll manage. Also, I do want to point out that even though I’m doing a remarkable job holding this all together with great aplomb to the point that I’m certain I should be feted and praised at length in ballads to come, I am – actually, in heat, Geralt, I’m currently in a heat and it – I – it hurts, I’m on fire, I might actually start crying I want to be fucked so badly –”

“Get in the back of the cart.”

He leaned over the back of the seat and managed to fling, and then flop, his way towards the back. 

“So you can be efficient when you want to be,” Geralt observed. He was, thankfully, steering them a little further down the road, and then, gently off the road to a small clearing. 

“Certainly can be,” Jaskier gasped, trying to shove his trousers down his thighs and unwrap their bedrolls to make some cushioning. He sort of managed neither, so that by the time Geralt came around the back of the cart, hefting himself up easily under the flex of one powerful thigh, he was more or less on all fours with his ass up in the air, smoothing the edge of their blankets over in one corner. 

He gasped when Geralt’s rough fingers slid across his bottom, catching a little between his cheeks, and pushed back without hesitation into the touch. 

Geralt caught him up – one hand beneath them, playing with the soft flesh of his ass, the other arm coming round his shoulders to haul him bodily back against Geralt. They were curved around each other. “Already dripping for it, aren’t you?”

Jaskier whined. “I _told_ you,” he protested and felt Geralt nosing around the back of his neck, snuffling like a beast. 

“Smell like – sweets,” Geralt muttered, sliding his nose over the arch of Jaskier’s throat, making him gasp again at the feather light touch, almost ticklish, certainly hellish when his body was screaming for something weightier. Geralt lifted his arm and stuck his nose right into Jaskier’s pit and made a sound like a growl. 

“Oh mother of fuck, I’ve heard you make that noise over a good bowl of stew,” Jaskier said, chest heaving like he was running, or maybe just from the way he was rutting back against the hot, fat shape of Geralt’s cock in his trousers, and Jaskier distantly appreciated that he was going to ruin the trousers with his slick but he was so close, close enough he could almost taste it, certainly close enough that he could smell it – the pungent, earthy scent from between Geralt’s legs. It was making his mouth water. It was making his ass slick up worse than ever. 

“Are you complaining?” Geralt asked, licking a line from Jaskier’s pit to his chest, so that they were twisted around each other. Geralt pawed at his chest like he was used to cupping something firmer and fuller there.

“Not,” Jaskier breathed, hissing when Geralt’s mouth closed around his nipple, his tongue lashing the small nub until it was hard and peaked, lips closing around the shape of it and pulling, and Jaskier gasped, “complaining,” and then, when Geralt did not let up, “that’s it,” sliding his hand around to the back of Geralt’s head and holding him there, “suck it.”

Geralt made a noise like one might imagine he’d make if he’d been hurt, very badly. A punched out, needy noise. Jaskier threaded his fingers through Geralt’s hair and tightened them, holding his head there. He pushed his chest against Geralt’s sucking mouth. “That’s it, suck my -,” he swallowed. Geralt had a line between his eyebrows, as if he was concentrating very hard, or as if he didn’t know what he was supposed to be feeling. “Suck on my tits,” he crooned, and Geralt’s tongue went rigid and purposeful against the tip of his nipple, his lips oh’ed in a tight suck like he was trying to – like he really was suckling.

“Don’t forget the other one,” Jaskier admonished, and guided him over, turning a little so that it was easier, so that Geralt was on his side now, hip to the blankets, holding himself up with one elbow, the other hand reaching to curl around Jaskier’s back and hold him close, as if he thought if he didn’t, Jaskier would slip away. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered, and Geralt’s fingers tightened on his flank. His mouth did not let up. Sucking and suckling. 

Jaskier was dripping all over both of them. 

“I want your cock,” he said, and it was a whisper, a rough, frantic whisper even though it was just them and the trees and Geralt, even in the throes of his own heat, would still be able to hear anyone coming before they could hear him and Geralt rutting against each other. Still, he was whispering. 

Geralt was using his tongue to pull Jaskier’s nipple roughly between his lips, bobbing his head a little with the motion, fingers set around the firm shape of his pectoral, and there was a single line between Geralt’s brows as if he was in pain. As if it hurt good when Jaskier told him, with his tit in his mouth, “I want your cock all stuffed up inside of me.”

Geralt made that noise again – punched out, needy. Wanting shot through with something else. Jaskier wasn't good at waiting, but Geralt was trained to it, so Jaskier pushed his mouth off his chest and shoved him down against the blankets and said, "Now, to be clear."

Geralt’s hands cupped Jaskier’s hips, slid over his chest and shoulders, as if he couldn’t stop touching, as if he didn’t know what it meant to not hold soft things gently in his raw, battered hands, and Jaskier couldn’t think about that, so instead he worked Geralt’s trousers down over his thighs, following his hands with his mouth, because Geralt was big and a little dirty and probably the last time he’d bathed properly had been in a river and he was absolutely covered in ropy scars and there was a proper chunk of flesh missing from his hip, as if something big and scary and dangerous had put its jaws around him and thought about lovingly dragging him right back under the sea or the mud or into the cave. Didn’t matter. The story was the same. Monster eats Witcher. Witcher kills Monster. You say it often enough the words start to mean the same thing. 

Geralt was big and sweat-sheened and a little hairy all over and every time Jaskier’s soft lips touched him he made that noise again – like he was hurting good. Like he was hurting bad.

“Jask -,” he rasped. Jaskier had his mouth on the inside of his thigh. When he looked up, Geralt’s cock was a fat, improbably huge shape on his thigh. 

“Big boy,” Jaskier muttered, nosing his way upwards, skirting the thick length of it, resting his cheek against Geralt’s abdominals. The head of his cock touched the highest point of the cut of his hip. It was blush pink. Jaskier scooped his mouth down over it, less a suck than an open-mouthed kiss, and wasn’t able to stop the pleased noise he made at the taste – thick and real and visceral on the back of his tongue, making his mouth water. 

Geralt’s stomach clenched under his cheek. Jaskier curled his fingers around the base, just above the knot, and let his jaw go soft and relaxed, slowly and inexorably inching his mouth down over it. 

“Jask -,” Geralt said, and now there was a note of worry in his voice. 

“S’alright,” Jaskier told him, kissing the shaft, rubbing his wet, puffy lips along the head. Geralt’s thighs flexed. “M’not even gonna try. I mean. Not right now.” He sounded a little as if he’d been drinking – and he felt that way. Slurry. Fucked out, just from holding the hot weight of Geralt’s big, sweet cock in his hand and sucking a little on the tip. That was all he could fit. “Not gonna make you wait anymore, I mean.”

Geralt snorted, and Jaskier thought that was fair, possibly, since he was the one actually begging for it, but then he was leveraging up and straddling Geralt’s big hips and he had to get a little up on his toes to do it, feet tacking against the blanket, knees digging into Geralt’s flanks, and the line was back on Geralt’s forehead, and his eyes had gone wide and dark and Jaskier thought he’d possibly not appreciated before how – pretty Geralt was, with his full lips and his long lashes and his cheekbones cutting up the night. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, and thought he could blame it on the heat, and maybe it was the heat, maybe it wasn’t – maybe it was this, whatever this was between them, something that had made Geralt take off all his clothes in front of him that first night when Jaskier had offered to bathe him until he was cleaned up again, until he stopped smelling of blood and started smelling instead like the herbs and soap Jaskier used on himself. 

Geralt lifted his chin a little, eyes hooded. “Sit on it.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier said, and his tongue felt fat and too big for his mouth. They both reached back at the same time – Geralt hefted his cock in one hand and Jaskier grabbed a palmful of his ass and held himself open, steadying his other hand on Geralt’s broad chest, and then Geralt was rubbing his cockhead – slick and soft – against Jaskier’s asshole and it felt good enough, that brief touch felt good enough that they were both groaning, Geralt’s fingers on his hips making a bruise of him. 

“Put it in me,” he whispered, and Geralt said, “I will,” but he wasn’t, he was rubbing his cockhead over Jaskier’s gasping hole, steadying it a little and jerking his hand so that it rubbed staccato-like against him, playing with him, then pushing the fat head further along so that he could arch his ass along the shaft, so that he could feel the full, thick, hot length between his cheeks and he _was_ begging now, he was, over and over pleading, “Put it in me, Geralt, fuck me with it, please, I need -,” and Geralt was saying, “I will, I am, I’m gonna, I’m gonna make you feel so good, you’re gonna take it all up inside of you, all of me,” and still he wasn’t, he _wasn’t_ , he was teasing Jaskier with his cock like it was a toy, like it was immaterial that it was attached to him, like it was just a fat toy to please and tease Jaskier’s asshole with and -

Jaskier felt his knuckles go tight with tension on Geralt’s chest, felt something hot and achy in his chest, something that wasn’t the heat or maybe it was, and he rolled off Geralt and went belly down next to him, pushing his knees under him so he was – presenting himself, ass up, hole so wet and gasping for it he could feel the cool touch of night against his rim, and he was panting nonsensically, “Now you have to, now you have to – fuck me, fuck it inside of me.”

And, mercifully, Geralt was there, folding himself along Jaskier’s back, pushing – and pushing – his cock like a breach, like a fullness so big and good it made everything else white out or simply immaterial – his ass shaping over Geralt’s cock like, he thought hysterically, _a wet silk glove_ and Geralt was heaving over him, strangled sounding, which was impossible, Witchers didn’t – and Geralt’s hands weren’t on his hips like they were fucking, they were wrapped around Jaskier’s chest and flanks like he was hugging him, and the minutest thrust of Geralt’s hips was punching the breath out of Jaskier’s chest, his throat, his brain. Nothing made sense. Everything fit together. 

They moved like a beast, one hitching beast, Jaskier’s hands clutching the blankets, fingers scrabbling against the catch, but Geralt was holding him up mostly anyways, an enormous hold as he fucked Jaskier back onto his cock, the knot nudging against his ass, and Jaskier realized distantly that he’d already come once, at some point, and that Geralt was crooning praise into his ear for having done it, sliding his hand down his belly to get it wet with Jaskier’s come. 

“Good,” he grunted. “Fucking – you like this angle?”

“Oh my god,” Jaskier breathed, shaking through Geralt’s steady fucking. He blinked. “Are you asking – I just came untouched,” he moaned, pressing his face against his forearm and pushing back for more. 

“Oh, that’s -,” Geralt managed, and he slowed to a still but Jaskier was still moving, backing up on his cock and then shuddering forward, little fucks of motion that had his ass rocking against Geralt’s cut hips. 

“Are you watching?”

Geralt’s fingers tightened. That was answer enough.

He leveraged forward on his knees until just the tip of Geralt’s cock was inside of him, asshole flared around the shape of it, and then slowly inched forward again, arching, bones full of honey, slowly, so slowly, until Geralt’s cockhead slipped out of him like he was sweet and wet and made for fucking. 

Geralt’s hands were brittle tight. 

Once he’d given him a good enough look – of his asshole, flared and wanting, fucked open into the shape of Geralt’s cock and missing it, he put his head down and humped backwards, rubbing himself against the shaft, crossing his forearms and hanging his head. “Put it back in,” he moaned. 

Geralt was, apparently, very obliging. 

“Hm,” Jaskier said thoughtfully, “Next time I want you to do something, I’ll just show you my fucked-out asshole is that it?”

Geralt made a sound like a sob and stuck his fingers in Jaskier’s mouth. “Sh,” he said, but it wasn’t an order at all. Strung out like that, it was all plea.

Jaskier could be obliging, too. 

Some time later, Jaskier cracked an eye open from where he’d squeezed them shut through the shock of another orgasm. He may have lost count. “No more,” he begged, slurring a little, reaching back to touch Geralt’s heaving flank. “I can’t,” he whined. 

“I know,” Geralt said in his ear, kissing him there on the lobe of his ear, then down below it, on the soft skin of his throat. His hands were on Jaskier’s thighs; he’d figured out he liked to touch him there when he came, fucking him softly through it as Jaskier's thighs went strong and corded and his cock pulsed with orgasm. Now he slid his hands up Jaskier’s belly, over his chest, stopping briefly to cup again, then to his throat. “I know,” he said, and kissed the back of his neck, and then said, in that same understanding, relentlessly reasonable voice, “One more.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier whined. 

“One more and I’ll give you it.”

“I can’t,” he protested, rocking his hips and rubbing against the top of Geralt’s knot. He wanted it inside of him. He wanted it big and inside of him and filling him up and Geralt’s come stuffed up inside of him. He wanted it the way he wanted to suck in another breath of air – it was a fact, it was non-negotiable. “I can take it, you can -” 

“Sweetheart,” Geralt said, and emphasized the word by curling his hand around Jaskier’s still hard cock, as if to say, _I know you need it still._

Jaskier squirmed back against him. “Okay,” he breathed, relenting, “you can have another one, you can make me come again.” Geralt pulled him back onto his lap, cock like an anchor inside him, and his own prick poking between his thighs, Geralt’s fist flying over it, mouth working the side of his neck like he was trying to taste him there, like he could get the scent of him on his tongue if he just tried hard enough. 

“Gonna lick you clean afterwards,” Geralt told him, matter of factly, like he was simply – letting Jaskier know. 

“Oh,” he moaned, shuddering in Geralt’s hands, “oh my god,” twisting his face to rub his nose against Geralt’s throat so he could get at his scent a little bit, too, still like fucking snowmelt at the top of a mountain, made liquid by sunshine, and then he was saying, wildly, “You’re - ” 

Geralt nodded, face pressed against Jaskier's throat. “Yeah,” he said. And then he said, “Lick you clean like a pup,” and then he was making a noise like the words had startled something out of him, a hot, horrible little noise, and he was pushing Jaskier back down onto the mound of blankets, flattening himself along Jaskier’s body and working his cock in and out of his hole and saying, “Oh," like he couldn't say anything else. Only, "oh," all gravelly and shorn down. 

Jaskier said, “Yes, that’s it, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, your cock is beautiful, fucking beautiful, perfect knot,” and it _was_ , the shape of it catching on his rim and pushing, another hard breach, and he breathed and breathed as much as he could with Geralt holding on to him like he was falling over the sharp end of a cliff, thighs tucked in tight and close to the backs of Jaskier’s thighs, nose against his neck, mouth shuddering a staccato of breath on his skin as he shaped silent words and pushed his knot inside of Jaskier, fucking him, coming inside of him, a noise like a groan of pain, like anguish, like it hurt to be this close to another person, like it was the worst and best thing he’d ever done, pushing his knot right inside of Jaskier and keeping him all tucked up close to him so that he couldn't leave him, not now, not even if he wanted to, though of course the thing was that Jaskier didn't want to, not at all. 

The moon was a high crooked thing in the sky when Geralt stirred next to him. 

Jaskier smiled against his forearm, where his cheek was mostly propped. “Did you know you immediately fall asleep when you come?”

Geralt paused. “Yes,” he said, which meant he did but that he didn’t know it was interesting. 

“Mm,” Jaskier said. He shimmied a little. Geralt’s touch had loosened from before, as if he wasn’t sure if he could. If he should. 

Jaskier shimmied again. 

“Are you – having a fit?”

“I will kill you with my big toe.”

Geralt grunted. “Not sure you could reach. You’re not – that flexible.”

“Are you going to put your arms around me or should we both freeze to death while we wait for your knot to go down?”

Geralt sniffed. “Are we – waiting?” His voice sounded – halved. Like a thing made small. 

“Well, I rather think it would scare the villagers, if we walked around like a four-footed beast connected at the cunt for the rest of our lives, don’t you?”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

Geralt sniffed again. He was running his fingers, very gently, along Jaskier’s hip. Their thighs were a tangle. 

Jaskier sucked on his bottom lip. Then he said, “If you wanted. I could be. That person. Like, the one you go to when you’re in heat. And, when I’m in heat, I could go to you.” He shrugged. “We could – take care of it. For each other.”

“Alright.”

“Alright.” He settled his head back and felt Geralt curl his arm to cradle it a bit easier. “Pull the blanket over us?”

“Can’t reach,” Geralt said. He sounded like he was falling asleep again.

“Oh, so now you’re not worried about the bugs.”

“You’ve scared any living thing in a 10-mile radius away, Buttercup, with your moaning.” 

Jaskier felt his eye twitching. “Yes, well your musk is just calling them all right back in, don’t _you_ worry.”

“S’alright. You can give me a bath at the next inn.” His voice was dropping off. He patted Jaskier’s head.

“How generous my Witcher is,” Jaskier murmured, letting sleep take him under now, too, and if Geralt’s patting hand turned into curled fingers brushing softly over the shell of his ear – well, there was no one around for miles to see it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Comments and feedback welcome and adored! I'm on [tumblr](https://silkcoeur.tumblr.com) generally yelling over many things, including Geralt being a big, soft-hearted dum dum who just wants to be loved on, a thing I am extremely chill and normal about.


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